They all talked together for a few minutes, or Theo Dene talked and let the others speak occasionally.  Then Nick said that he must take his car to the garage, but would come back for luncheon; and when he had flashed away, Miss Dene invited herself to Mrs. May’s room.  “Do let me go with you,” she pleaded, with a girlish air which she liked to put on with married women younger than herself.  She thought that amusing.  It impressed upon them the fact that she was a girl—­free, with life before her.  And, indeed, “The Free Lance” was a nickname of hers, which she liked rather than disliked.

Of course, Angela said, “Do come.”  She had found out that she was tired of Miss Dene.  Still, she was curious to hear what she would say.

Kate had already opened her mistress’s luggage, and spread gold and crystal toilet things about.  There were flowers, too, on the sitting-room tables and mantel, California poppies with flaming orange hearts.  Nick had telegraphed for these; but Angela supposed that they had been ordered by the “management.”  This impression was unlikely to be contradicted, because Nick had wanted her to have the flowers, not to get the credit for giving them.  But Theodora Dene, who was experienced and shrewd in matters of the heart, wondered about the poppies.  She made no mention of them, however, to Angela.

“I wanted you to myself for a minute,” she explained, “to tell you I won’t forget you are Mrs. May—­toujours Mrs. May.  And you needn’t tell me—­anything, unless you like.”

“I have told you why I came to California,” said Angela.  “I came to see it.”

“And I do think you’re seeing it in the nicest way!” Miss Dene commented, sweetly.  “I came for something quite different.  I don’t one bit mind confessing.”

“To write a book about California?”

“That was what I said to reporters.  And that I was going to visit Mrs. Harland.  She’s quite a dear, and I made her ask me, last time she was in England, because that was the first time I met her brother.  I really came over with the idea of marrying him.  He’s splendid, and has loads of money—­which I badly need, for I’ve spent every penny I’ve made from my books, and I’ve only eight hundred a year of my own.  That won’t buy my frocks!  I took the greatest fancy to him.  But I see now it’s no use.  Rather a bore!  One hates to fail—­and I’m not used to failure.  However, there’s a great romance—­which is one consolation.  I’m thinking whether or not I shall use it for the book.  I’d like to—­only Mr. Falconer’s so well known.  Perhaps I shall pick up another plot.  Anyhow, I’m recovering from the blow, and beginning to take notice—­as they say of babies and widows.  That brown man of yours is a dream of beauty.  Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No.  And he isn’t mine,” said Angela, taking off her motor-veil in front of the mirror.

“Well, then, dear Princess, if he isn’t yours, and you don’t want him to play with, do hand him over to me.  I won’t grab him, if you want him yourself.  You were too nice to me in Rome.”